7:20 p.m.-
EZ
and I were harried at the landing by a discordant sendoff fifteen minutes ago.
Georgie the beagle bayed our approach, wailing his galling non-stop "Little
Latin Lou-bee-Lou" ha-roo, joined by another beagle wearing a bowtie and
drool on it's snout. It barked in pig Latin though, due to a lisp.
I
situated the trailer into position, unhooked the cinches, opened the hatch and
gave EZ the painter, (I am training her to hold the boat rope in her teeth, a
helpful new trick she seems eager to help with) and told her to stay calm and
ignore the two barking idiot flakes.
"ROOO-ROOO."
"Git
over here Georgie."
"Por-jee!"
shouted the man squatting on a broken picnic table smoking a cherry Swisher
Sweet. His wife, a yellow-haired woman sagging under a headdress of curlers,
stood open-mouthed, without cerebral alacrity.
Back
into the car, reverse the boat off the trailer.
Georgie
and Por-jee, un-hindered by verbal command or moral conscience, snuck toward us
silently through the brush along shore.
"WOOOO"
and "ROOOO" startled me near the dock. I hit the brakes to set the
boat free. EZ barked defensively and dropped her rope. The boat kept backing.
"Georgie-Por-jee!
Git back here!"
Shabby,
the big yellow lab trotted up, lifted a rear leg, and pissed on our rear
bumper. EZ gave me a show I've never seen. She erupted snarling and shrieking,
rolling Por-jee and Georgie onto their backs like musty carpets. Circling, she
aimed straight for Shabby, fangs bared and not in a smile. Shabby dodged left.
EZ snapped at his butt, but only got tail. He yipped and bolted for home behind
Georgie and Por-jee. Then she trotted onto the dock, dove high and splashed,
and paddling fast toward the boat and its floating rope, seized it with her
teeth, turned and, like the Charles Atlas towing a luxury liner to demonstrate
her strength, retrieved it back.
She
found purchase with her toes against the concrete ramp, dropped the rope, waded
back out and nudged the boat softly up against the pier, then tied a half-hitch
to the dock and sat down in the boat.
7:47-
We
are pulled up on Bald Head. Bullfrogs have begun to chug with more sexual
intensity as the sun cools. EZ is sitting with her back to me on the sand, half
in the water, sniffing the ripening marsh scented air. Water bugs are towing
silvery wakes on the sky.
Earlier today-
Caleb
wanted me to meet his Swiss exchange student friend. I suggested an afternoon
on the water to swim, explore, show-off northern Wisconsin in summer, hang out.
"I'll
ask her, but she probably won't want to swim. She's, uh, quite well-endowed and
self-conscious about it."
"Fine,"
I said. "We can swim, she can wade, sit, whatever."
At
1:30 p.m. I heard the van crunch gravel in the parking lot. Doors slammed, and
around into sight he came escorting a trollop who wanted to have sex soon. She
was shorter than him, and petite. I feigned not to stare, pretended to evaluate
two cranes mating in the west. I glanced toward their approach at a befitting
moment, smiled, choked and sneezed Mountain Dew involuntarily as Tamara leaned
over to shake my hand. Fifteen percent of her ninety-five pounds was uplifted
and pushed out on display, severely confined inside a Wonder Bra and
wide-openly enhanced by a low-swooping sundress. My God or your God or anybody's
God however false who lives high in the sky, could easily see all He wanted,
though it is unlikely He--gay or lesbian--is as enchanted by sacks of fat on
young girls as are corporeal men who take full advantage of their portions of
God-given male hormones.
She
leaned into the boat and stepped down. I quickly revved the motor and backed
barefooted Daisy Mae and I away and left Caleb standing on the dock.
No,
just kidding.
They
got in, sat down, Caleb though was athletically hindered by trying to hide the
lump at his crotch.
Her sundress was wispy-thin and white with tiny pastel polka dots.
Narrow yellow ribbons--bow-tied at the cleavage--flipped in the wind and drew
her hand, and my eyes, there often. She wore a white lacy slip underneath.
That was exposed freely. The dress was cut low in the back without the wearing-of-a-brassiere
in the designer's plan. Hers was right out there like a fashion statement,
tiny white-painted clasps smooth and brilliant, easy for most men to unhook
with two fingers in the dark after brief practice. Strange to see such a forbidden
undergarment so casually revealed.
She
tugged at the bodice and ribbons continually, surreptitiously making sure at
first we saw her frustration, increasing male tension.
He and I met eyes urgently a few times; "WOW!" when hitching
up her slip distracted her.
Her hair was ratted into a Swiss bed head chambermaid shape, as though
after sex it'd been haphazardly jumbled high and stuck through with a straight
pin. Lots of loose ends flowed free in the breeze.
She had a charming thick accent of some sort. I asked what her native
language back in Geneva was.
"French," she said through her lower lip piercing and nose
plug, "though three other languages are spoken there: German, Italian"
& and some other dialectic accent I couldn't quite understand.
The
lip earring was halfway between her lower lip and chin and, later, when I didn't
think she'd be too put off by the question, asked if the inside of it bothered
her much.
She pulled her lip wide open and showed me it all. A flat silver plate
of some sort clasped her lip and lower gums together.
"Don't
even notice it," she bragged.
"Do
you ever leak spit?"
"Tee-hee-
(snort)," she giggled, and said, "not too much."
Tamara exuded sexuality. Either highly practiced to give the impression
as naively innocent, or blatantly seeking sex, no matter. Whatever.
What
are guys supposed to do with such performances of youthful female flesh? She's "Too
self-conscious to swim," but shows up showing herself wide bare. If it's
not covered, then it's intended to be gawped at. But, polite men and boys are
civilly taught to not stare at cripples and deviants and bare-naked ladies
through bright bedroom windows at night.
She
was acutely aware of our eyes and teased us by constantly re-securing her
wind-blown dress down under her knees, and tugging the lacy fabric covering her
breasts back up. "Look but don't touch," didn't seem relevant since
she would not have worn that sort of a wardrobe if the boys in her midst weren't
supposed to look.
We
waded at Sandy Flats. She stood in sandy knee-deep water and held her dress up
mid-thigh while Cabe and I played Frisbee half-heartedly and pretended to be
normal and not distracted in the midst of a sexual goddess. She splashed him
and invited retaliation. Her dress got wet, of course, and she sniggled and
wiggled and tittered proper wet-cotton dismay.
On
to grand Sandbanks. Tamara blew Miracle Bubbles into Caleb's face through the
pink plastic Miracle Bubble wand. He enjoyed it once, then smiled patiently
through the thirtieth spray. Then he and I swam while Tamara sat in the boat
and blew more Miracle bubbles.
I climbed the sand cliff with the video camera to zoom in and see what
God could see down below. But she turned her back when she saw me playing
God up high.
We
idled upriver under the hide-and-seek sun.
I
wish she'd worn a three-sizes-too-big sweatshirt and a pair of comfy old-lady
flannel jeans.
She flirted with my son, stabbing at him with a Princess Wand length
of stout sharpened grass, no longer a sexual Goddess but a superficial teenaged
girl who hadn't yet learned much sense, but knew how to play the sex game.
I liked her. I liked Cameron Diaz too, until I saw her on Letterman a week
ago and saw what a fraudulent flatulent person she really was.
"Look if you like. But not too much, and certainly don't touch."